Murder at Marble House (16 page)

I knocked softly on the open door; her humming broke off and she looked up. “Oh, good afternoon, Miss Cross.” She smiled self-consciously and returned the earring to the box. “I was just going through some of my jewelry. Most of it was my mother’s, and I’m thinking of selling some, actually. A woman only needs so many baubles, after all.”

I grinned and stepped into the room. “Aunt Alva wouldn’t agree.”

“No, I suppose she wouldn’t. But she has had to endure some . . . let us say . . . wearisome influences in her life. Yet her heart is in the right place. She understands a woman needs independence, and that we should be taken seriously and have the same rights as our husbands.”

“Does she believe that? I wonder.” I perched on the chaise at the foot of the bed. “What about her own daughter?”

I shouldn’t have said it, not to a virtual stranger, but I couldn’t help myself. Maybe I’d simply grown tired of the Vanderbilt edict that family business never be discussed with outsiders. I wondered what Hope Stanford knew, if anything, about Consuelo’s absence. Aunt Alva had probably told her guests Consuelo was visiting a friend in town.

Mrs. Stanford swiveled about on her tufted stool to face me. “That is a bit different, isn’t it? Her daughter is very young. She needs a mother’s guidance.”

“She won’t always be young, Mrs. Stanford. But she’ll always have to live with the decisions her mother makes for her now.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Mrs. Stanford tapped her chin. “But she’d also have to live with any disastrous decisions she might make if left to her own devices.”

Her reply held a certain sense, I had to admit. I folded my hands in my lap and leaned toward her. “So at what point should a woman be allowed her autonomy?”

“Oh, my dear, that is different for every woman, depending on her circumstances. Take you, for example. Any fool can see you are entirely capable of taking care of yourself. Were I your mother, I would certainly grant you a good measure of independence. Why . . .”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never had a daughter. Two sons, but no daughters. It’s a shame, really, when I think of what I might have taught her. How she might have continued my efforts on behalf of women once I’m gone.” Her eyes had taken on a dreamy quality, but now her gaze sharpened on me. “Because, mark my words, it’s going to take many more years, decades perhaps, for women’s independence to be fully realized. Now, the temperance movement, on the other hand, will know success much sooner. We’re quite close to . . .”

She rambled on about senators, congressmen, and potential bills waiting to be drafted, but I paid scant attention. Time was wasting, and the sooner I returned to town the sooner I could show Jesse the petals I’d found. I hoped he’d send them to a botanist to identify, and I hoped they would turn out to be more traceable than simply something blown in off the cliffs. It wasn’t until Mrs. Stanford mentioned her husband’s name that I snapped out of my reverie.

“Mr. Stanford,” I repeated, blinking.

“Why, yes, dear. As I was saying, when we arrived in town—”

“Is he still in town?”

She flinched at my interruption. “Yes, he decided to stay with a bachelor friend while I visited with Mrs. Vanderbilt. We never expected my stay here to extend beyond a couple of nights, but, well, with all that’s happened, the police prefer I don’t leave Newport yet in case they have more questions, and I simply don’t have the heart to leave your aunt all alone until things settle down.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I murmured. Last night those men on Rose Island had said, “Hurry it up, dammit. Stanford’s waiting.” I’d discounted the possibility of there being any connection to Mrs. Stanford, but . . .

“Does your husband support the temperance movement?” I asked, once more interrupting whatever she’d been saying.

Her brows drew together. “Of course he does. That’s why we originally came to Newport. He’s been conferring with your town officials to shut down these ungodly taverns and usher in more wholesome means of entertainment. The imbibing of spirits only ever leads to . . .”

I blocked her out again. Why would a temperance supporter put in with molasses smugglers? Perhaps Derrick had been mistaken in his assumptions.

But what if he wasn’t?

I came to my feet, once again making Mrs. Stanford flinch at my abruptness. “I have to go,” I said. “Good day, Mrs. Stanford.”

She didn’t wish me a good day in turn. She only frowned at me as I hurried out of the room.

 

“I thought we agreed this was none of your business, Emma.” Derrick’s voice carried through the lobby of the Atlantic House Hotel; several guests, a porter, and the clerk at the check-in desk sent us inquiring looks.

Derrick seized my elbow and drew me into a corner half-hidden by an overgrown potted palm. “You promised, Emma.”

“Did I?” I gazed up into his eyes—at this moment dark and fiery—and almost forgot why I’d come to see him. I’d made a quick stop at the police station to hand Jesse the evidence I’d found. He’d been skeptical but promised to have an expert examine the petals. Then I’d rushed here and found Derrick in, but not necessarily in the most receptive state once he heard my request. Or was he still fuming over my suggestion that morning that he might use Consuelo’s disappearance to sell newspapers for his father?

“Derrick, don’t you see that my cousin’s disappearance and those smugglers might be connected after all? Those men mentioned someone called Stanford, and a woman by the name of Hope Stanford is staying with Aunt Alva. She was there when the medium died and Consuelo disappeared.”

“And what? You think this woman is involved in smuggling?”

His mocking tone raised my hackles. “Don’t be silly. But her husband is also staying in Newport. The pair are supposedly in support of the temperance movement, but what if her husband secretly isn’t? What if—”

“There you go, jumping to conclusions and stretching the facts again.” He crossed his arms in a defensive posture, yet his eyes never left mine as they narrowed pensively. I waited silently, letting him work through the same thoughts that had earlier occurred to me. “It would be a good cover, wouldn’t it? The husband of a temperance leader flooding the market with illegal rum . . .”

I struggled to keep the triumph from my expression, though he quelled it quickly enough. “I still don’t see how it could have anything to do with your cousin.”

“Well, the man’s wife
is
staying at Marble House. Maybe Consuelo heard something.”

“That would mean Mrs. Stanford would have to be in on the crime. Could she be that accomplished an actress? I’ve heard of the woman’s antics in town. Do you know she took a sledgehammer to a bar top?”

“I’ve heard the story,” I said, remembering hearing the details from the woman herself only two days ago. “But it’s not only the Stanfords who might be involved. There is also Winthrop Rutherfurd.”

“Ah, yes. Winty.”

“With his involvement we can’t rule out a connection to Consuelo.”

I could see from the softening of Derrick’s jawline that I had him half-convinced of my suspicions. Please don’t judge me harshly, but I used that moment to press my advantage.

“Derrick . . .” I laid my fingertips on his forearm, the summer-light weave of his coat sleeve softly nubby against my skin. “I’m sorry about this morning. I know you would never betray a confidence, mine or anyone else’s. I wasn’t thinking quite straight yet.”

“I know.” He covered my hand with his own, sending a warm shiver up my arm. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have been angry after all you’d just been through. But it’s true, Emma. I will never attempt to benefit from anything you might confide in me, except to ensure nothing bad happens to you.”

His voice had become a balmy rumble; this, and the sudden warmth in his gaze, instantly became too much for me. Too revealing and too open, as if it were my turn now to respond, to reveal something of myself.

I wasn’t ready. Not after adamantly turning down Derrick’s proposal of marriage such a short time ago. Good grief, had it only been the morning of Madame Devereaux’s murder? It seemed as though eons had passed since then.

Had I made the right choice? My head and everything I wanted for myself said yes; but that look in Derrick’s eyes and the alarm building inside me suggested otherwise, and as the seconds passed I grew in greater and greater danger of falling prey to those suggestions.

Then Derrick removed his hand. I dropped mine from his forearm. We stepped apart. He coughed, I chuckled. A horribly awkward moment passed.

With a rueful quirk of his mouth, he said, “So, tell me about this latest plan you’ve cooked up.”

D
errick and I waited until the next day to implement my plan. I didn’t relish the delay, but he insisted I go straight home after our brief encounter in the Atlantic House Hotel’s lobby. He said I’d likely collapse if I pushed myself any further that day, and though I loathed admitting it, he was likely right.

That next morning I quickly donned the lime green walking outfit Gertrude had recently given me. With her usual lightning speed, Nanny had made the necessary alterations, along with adding creamy taffeta embroidered with green and pink flowers to the collar and cuffs, breathing new life into Gertrude’s castoff. I counted it among my most fashionable ensembles.

Why did I find it necessary to wear my best that day? Even as I stood before my mirror adjusting the matching flowered hat with its dyed-green feathers, I all but choked on the hypocrisy of wanting to look pretty for Derrick.

Downstairs, I practically inhaled a cup of strong coffee and the scrambled eggs Nanny insisted I eat. Then it was off to town. Rather than drive my rig, I hitched a ride with cousins Gertrude and Gladys, on their way to watch a tennis match at the Casino. They both approved Nanny’s alterations on my outfit.

Derrick was waiting outside the Newport
Observer
when I arrived. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked in lieu of a proper greeting as he helped me down from my cousins’ carriage.

“Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He looked at me doubtfully. “I’d hoped a good night’s rest might help you see reason.”

“Derrick, if anything, the hours between our talk yesterday and today only strengthened my resolve. Those men on Rose Island tried to
kill
us. Don’t you want to know who is ultimately responsible for that?”

“Emma, those men might have wanted to kill us, but I’m fairly certain they didn’t get a good look at us. That means they don’t know who we are any more than we know who they are. If you ask me, the safest course is to leave it be.”

“And I say there is greater safety in knowledge.” I raised my eyebrows in a silent dare to contest my assertion.

He only moved to open the door for me. “By the way, you look very pretty today,” he murmured as I preceded him inside.

“Thank you.” I broke into a grin, one I was glad he couldn’t see.

After bidding Donald Larimer good morning we strode past his desk and continued down the corridor leading to the
Observer
’s workrooms. We went into the office I shared with Ed Billings, one I rarely used as I preferred to write at home. Ed must have been out scouting news, for I saw no coat over the back of his chair, nor papers strewn across his desk, nor any other sign that he might be in the building. The typical drone of a workday filtered in from the newsroom and, farther back still, the presses. Derrick waited while I uncovered the typewriter. This was my reason for coming here: the use of the machine that would help conceal my identity. We conferred on wording, and then I tapped away at the keys. Some twenty minutes later we were back on the street, looking up and down the sidewalk for the opportunity we sought. Derrick spotted it, or should I say
him,
and let out a shrill whistle.

“Boy! Over here. Would you like a job?”

Instantly, the passing bicycle stopped, then turned about. Its rider wore navy blue trousers, a matching coat emblazoned with bright brass buttons that caught the sun, and the stiff, flat-topped cap of a Western Union messenger boy. “You got something you need delivered, sir?”

Officially, boys like this one delivered packages for Western Union for paltry weekly wages, and it wasn’t unusual for them to earn extra cash by fitting a few private deliveries into their daily schedules. Derrick held out the two envelopes we’d addressed inside. “Can you deliver these for us by this afternoon?”

“Sooner than that, sir.” The boy peered at the addresses. “Cost you a nickel each.”

Derrick fished a coin out of his trouser pocket. We might have hired one of the
Observer
’s young newsies or office boys for the errand, but we had reasons for wanting to remain anonymous. “Here’s fifty cents if you don’t tell either addressee anything about who hired you.”

The young man, a bit of dirt on his chin, grinned and made a gesture against his lips as if locking them. He pushed away from the sidewalk and rode off down busy Thames Street.

 

I found myself glad I’d worn Gertrude’s lovely outfit later that evening when Derrick took me to dine at the White Horse Tavern, a quaint yet elegant eatery established long before the Revolution. While I’ll admit nothing quite exceeds Nanny’s plain but savory fare, I enjoyed my roast duck, rosemary potatoes, and glazed carrots immensely. Yet once again, the simple act of sharing a meal with Derrick brought to mind all the other things he’d invited me to share in his life, and if I laughed a bit too shrilly or talked rather too quickly, it was my feeble attempt to appear confident in the decision I’d made not to accept his offer of marriage.

From there we made our way to Bellevue Avenue and Mill Street, where dignified clapboard houses faced a grassy, tree-shaded square called Touro Park. At the park’s center, the Old Mill Tower rose up against the evening sky, its unmortared stones forming several arches in a circular design nearly thirty feet in height. Some speculated Vikings had built it hundreds of years before Columbus set sail to this hemisphere; others held it to be nothing more exotic than the remains of a seventeenth-century windmill. For me, that night, the very sight of it made my breath hitch in anticipation.

We kept to the edges of the park and took up position under the shelter of some trees, pressed tight to the trunk of the largest among them. We didn’t have long to wait. Other than the occasional muffled voice from one of the houses behind us, silence reigned in the neighborhood until footsteps alerted us to the arrival of the first of our quarry. Though the darkness as well as a broad-brimmed beaver hat concealed his features, the approaching man revealed himself as one of our target by striding to the tower and passing through the closest of its arches.

Soon carriage wheels echoed off the fronts of the houses directly across the park from us. The hansom cab stopped and a man alighted. Again we could not make out his face clearly, but after a quick look about and a word to the driver, this man, too, made his way inside the tower.

The carriage drove off, and Derrick and I used its rumble to conceal our steps as we moved closer, careful to stay close to trees and hedges and not daring to speak a word. Once again I applauded my choice in wearing my restored gown; being meant for walking, the petticoats were of the softest muslin that remained virtually silent when I moved.

We crept as close as we dared to the tower. Hushed voices drifted from inside.

“Have you lost your wits, summoning me here like this?”

“Me? You’re the one gone daft. I told you the other morning when you intruded upon my breakfast that I didn’t want anything more to do with you. I did what you asked. Now fulfill your side of the bargain and leave me alone.”

The first voice was that of a stranger to me. The second voice—oh, that one I knew well enough. I caught Derrick’s eye and silently moved my lips.

A quivering realization went through me. This other man was the reason Winty hadn’t allowed me to search his house for Consuelo the morning I’d visited him. Another visitor had gotten there before me, and Winty hadn’t wanted me to discover him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” that man said now, his voice deeper, gruffer than Winty’s, suggesting he was older. “What do you want? Make it quick.”

The individual I had already guessed to be Hope Stanford’s husband stepped into view through one of the arches. His rotund figure filled the space, though his head fell far short of the arch’s zenith. With an impatient gesture he swept his beaver hat off his head, revealing a balding pate wreathed by tight, closely cropped curls that shimmered silver in the moonlight.

“What do
I
want?” It was Winty speaking this time. “You sent for me, remember?”

Pebbles crunched and suddenly both men were framed by the archway. Winty poked a finger at Stanford’s frock coat. “I played your little game, but I swear, Stanford, if you drag me down any further I’ll go to my father. We might not have quite the fortune we once did, but Father’s still got his connections. He’ll see you put out of business—any and all business.”

“You wouldn’t dare besmirch your own name, much less run confessing to your papa. Just think how disappointed he’d be to discover his dear Winthrop putting in with smugglers.”

Derrick and I shot each other another glance.

“Damn you, Stanford. Look, let’s just get this over with before someone spots us together. What do you want? If it’s to help you again, you can forget it.”

“Why do you insist on asking me what I want?” A rustle of paper disturbed the quiet. “You summoned
me.
” Calvin Stanford thrust a piece of paper toward Winty. Winty stared at it dumbly before reaching inside his coat and pulling out a similar sheaf.

This time Derrick and I exchanged knowing—and yes, amused—looks; we knew good and well where those notes had originated.

“What the . . . ?” Mr. Stanford swiped the paper from Winty’s hand and held it up beside his own. He squinted to make out the words. Then he snapped both pages to his side and began looking about, neck craning as he searched the shadowy park. “Damn it, we’ve been set up.”

Derrick took my hand and together we stepped out from behind the concealing foliage. “Yes, you have.”

Stanford drew himself up, his corpulent stomach a protruding mound beneath his coat. “What is the meaning of this? Who are you?”

Beside him, Winty stared like a frightened rabbit, his face gone as pale as the moon hanging above us. “M-Miss Cross . . .”

“You know these people?” A sneer grew on Stanford’s face as he looked me up and down.

“I know
her,
” was Winty’s unsteady answer.

“And I know you, Mr. Rutherfurd, and all I can say is shame on you. Shame on you both.” I shifted my attention to the other man. “What would your wife say, Mr. Stanford?”

“Who in the hell are you two?” the man demanded. “I won’t ask what you want. The answer is obvious: blackmail.”

I smiled. “There you are wrong, Mr. Stanford. Mr. Andrews and I have no interest in blackmailing either of you. We brought you both here tonight on a hunch that has proved correct. And now we have some questions we’d like answered.”

“Well . . .” The man released a mirthless laugh that shook the loose skin bulging from his collar. “I’ve no intention of answering them. You, miss, should be home with your family, where a young lady belongs. And you, sir . . .” He trailed off, his gaze narrowing and his lips drooping at the corners. “I know you . . .”

“Do you indeed?” Derrick tilted his head as if in polite interest. “I’m sorry to say that if we’ve met I don’t remember. However, I do seem to be learning quite a bit about you tonight. About both of you. Mr. Rutherfurd, I’ve heard a lot about you from Miss Cross.”

Winty stuttered something unintelligible and I began to fear the shock of our little ruse might threaten his health.

“You’re the Andrews heir,” Stanford said slowly. “Of the Providence
Sun.
I’ve seen your picture. . . .”

Derrick gave a little bow. “At your service, sir.”

At that moment Winty apparently found his tongue. “Miss Cross, what is this all about?”

“Don’t be stupid, Rutherfurd. Despite what they say they’re here to blackmail us.” Stanford regarded Derrick and me with a resigned air. “How much?”

“Honestly, Mr. Stanford, that is not our intent. Not that I condone illegal activities, mind you, and Mr. Rutherfurd, I’m astonished at you.” I paused to show them my best imitation of one of Nanny’s chastising pouts. “But you can distill illegal rum until the cows come home for all I care.”

It was Winty’s and Stanford’s turn to exchange surprised looks. I then garnered an admiring if begrudging one from Stanford.

“What we want to know . . . what we
demand
to know,” I said, “is where you both were on the night before last. When the smugglers on Rose Island tried to kill us.”

“What?” Winty’s exclamation came out as a strangled gasp. The type-written notes fluttered from Stanford’s hand to land in the dirt at his feet. “I was nowhere near Rose Island the other night. I swear it.”

“But men in your employ were,” Derrick said.

Stanford scrambled to retrieve the missives before the wind took them, then straightened with an indignant snort. “What proof do you have—”

“They spoke your name, Mr. Stanford.” I raised my chin at him, daring him to contradict what Derrick and I had heard with our own ears. “And just so you’re aware, I’ve left a signed statement in my desk at the Newport
Observer
detailing everything that happened that night. If anything should happen to Derrick or me, rest assured that statement will be found.”

I could feel Derrick frowning at me, though I didn’t dare glance his way. I’d left no such statement and he knew it. But I resolved to do so at the very first opportunity.

“Now, then,” I went on, “we’d very much like an answer. Or perhaps you’d care to take this to the police station. My very good friend Detective Whyte would be happy to take over the task of questioning you.”

“She’s telling the truth about that,” Winty said to Stanford out of the side of his mouth. “She and that detective are friends.” He turned his attention to me. “Miss Cross, as God is my witness, all I did was agree to drop a marker in the water at the edge of Rose Island, designating where a delivery was to be dropped off, and then retrieved by another vessel. That is the extent of my involvement.”